Always

Next to her I sit,

Where I cannot refrain

From touching 

These slender white

Wrists, like two tiny birds

Bathing in sun sheen, singing

Pure joy

In the birch trees

Shimmering green

Always

Above us. 

  Watering In Verse

Some days before the sizzle

picks up steam and your

thermometer bulges

like weight lifters on steroids,

yes, these early mornings of cool

breezes and quiet streets is exactly

when the best poetry is not

a bundle of evocative words

on the page but rather 

as simple as turning on

this water spigot to fill

the brown jug, then soaking

your recently planted thirsty

bushes dancing in soft air,

whispering beauty 

across the driveway

to no one and to everyone,

their small smiling purple flowers

the sweetest verse you’ve 

read in months.

 a lone

dewdrop

translucent

almost pregnant

in its patient

blossoming

    d

      o

        w

           n

this green

and shining

leaf

dawn's sky

gray stained

light soaked

crow cawed

whole body

becomes

a single ear

hears day

waking

stretching her golden

limbs

into such haphazard

coherence.

 Warming This Place

The hearth of the home—

the core of its being

and thrust

of its mysterious 

becoming—

is the human heart

vibrant and tender,

     often shy

       yet still

         opening 

without restraint 

to the human and 

more-than-human hearts

all around, these trees

stones animals grasses 

people and clouds,

while full-circling

like a wobbly child 

on her first bike

rounding the block,

bravely learning 

to receive the gift

of kindness 

as Dad’s proud grin

holds her steady softly

from 30 feet behind

even as strong 

calloused hands 

that guided

have let go. 

 Stupefacente

Last night’s dream,

Astonishing!

Yet remember this story,

This visitor from the darkness,

I cannot..

These dreams slip

Through my preoccupied mind

Like so much smoke

From a chimney and yet

In their loyalty, these scintillas

Of sudden generosity

Have never forgotten

Me. Does the blossom

Not recall the hummingbird,

The wild bunny deny

This gift of fresh lettuce,

The grandfather act as if

He did not delight

At granddaughter’s giggle??

Why am I nothing

But an old man, lazy

And self-centered,

Beset by such defects

Of memory

Towards these amazing

Offerings from Creation’s

Pulsing Heart?

    To Be Astonished 

Breezes out of nowhere effervesce 

across our whispering tongues, midday 

light scatters her heady fragrance 

far beyond boyhood’s red bicycles, rooftop 

escapades, mischief-making 

job descriptions and voluptuous 

caramel sundaes taken in ecstatic 

silence on creaky drugstore stools, lips

smacking the only sound. Later 

those Saturday afternoon movie screens 

hurling magic towards beguiled eyes 

like flames blowtorched from a mighty 

dragon.  Nothing could match 

that freedom then, that flying 

through space shoelaces flapping, 

grinning and cavorting, belly laughing,

where even freckles pack dancing shoes.